


Hopeless Wanderer

by bubblewrapstargirl



Series: Hopeless Wanderer [2]
Category: Resident Evil (Movieverse), The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Disturbing Themes, Dubious Ethics, Dubious Science, Future Fic, Gen, Morally Ambiguous Character, Rated for Gore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-03
Updated: 2015-04-03
Packaged: 2018-03-21 02:13:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,228
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3673671
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bubblewrapstargirl/pseuds/bubblewrapstargirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He only has to roll over and growl, to hear the answering groans of his minions. They follow in his footsteps like undead ducklings, keen to trot after him in the ever-present search for food.</p><p> </p><p>---<br/>No knowledge of Resident Evil is necessary, this is purely a TWD story, only as if it were set in a universe where the Umbrella Corporation exists and is responsible for the virus.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hopeless Wanderer

**Author's Note:**

> _Hold me fast cause I'm a hopeless wanderer;_  
>  _I will learn to love the skies I'm under._  
>  \- Mumford & Sons

Carl curls up amidst his own private army, quickly buried under a layer of blankets and a kevlar vest that he tucks over his head. He learnt the hard way that trigger-happy humans faced with a herd of walkers are reluctant to stop shooting, even when one of that herd is frantically trying to get their attention. He heals quickly now, but Carl doubts that even he would survive a direct headshot.

He’s most vulnerable to attack while he’s sleeping, so it’s probably just as well that he no longer needs very much of it. Four hours in the darkest part of the night has him waking as refreshed as though he’d had a good ten of undisturbed, dreamless sleep. The constant shuffle and hissing of his companions barely disturbs him any more. The absence of sound is infinitely more disturbing to him now; quiet would mean he was all alone, in a lost world empty of any comrades at all.

There is no one else like Carl, least not that he has encountered, and occasionally that gets terribly lonely. But he only has to roll over and growl, to hear the answering groans of his minions. They follow in his footsteps like undead ducklings, keen to trot after him in the ever-present search for food.

Human food is far less appealing than it once was, but Carl is compelled by the same incessant hunger as his herd, and never turns away from tins or packets. Unless it’s visibly moulding, he’ll eat anything, even things years out of date. It’s not like his stomach can’t handle it. Meat is better; fresh and bleeding if he can get it.

Animals are often warned of the stench and sound of his herd far before Carl has any chance of catching them, which is why he often leads his troop from metres ahead. That, and because any humans he encounters have a fighting chance of getting away before the herd is on top of them. Carl does his best to keep them back, in the rare occurrence that humans are stumbled upon before he can warn them away; but walkers confronted with fresh meat are difficult to control, even ones as obedient as Carl’s herd.

His mom used to use the phrase ‘herding cats’ to describe trying to wrangle a group of unruly people, like their Atlanta group, all together to complete one task. Carl understands what she meant now, though he would wager that herding a troop of walkers is considerably harder, when they are easily distracted by noise or lights or the smell of humans. Carl doesn’t like to think of his previous human life; it makes his head hurt, the large gaps in his memory and understanding. He pushes it aside as best he can in his daily life, and the distraction of chivvying his undead minions is a good one.

Most of his fellow walkers are easily controlled, some tiny remaining brain function activated whenever Carl asserts his dominance. Once he’s won them over, it’s difficult to get them to leave him, though they are frequently distracted by noise and the possibility of food. The ones that have been with him longest aren’t even swayed by the sound of human voices. They will wait for Carl, obedient puppies desperately seeking master’s approval. They don’t have the ability to understand complex ideas, but they have learnt that Carl won’t make the first bite. Whenever possible, Carl lets humans go free, commanding his herd to remain in place until the humans have moved a safe distance ahead. But he can’t control their actions unless he’s within shouting distance of them, and it’s not infrequent that he stumbles across humans already bitten by rogue walkers. When that happens, Carl takes the offering for what it is. (His father once told him it was a sin to waste food.)

In the morning, Carl wakes to the same life he left behind for the dark cocoon of sleep. He flexes his fingers and toes; all still present and correct. He thinks he’d wake if any of his walkers turned rabid, and tried to take a chunk out of him - but you never know. Walkers tend to only bite the freshly turned, whose flesh still smells appealing, instead of the rancid with the stench of death.

But Carl is not quite the same; no longer human, not truly walker either. And rogue walkers are always unpredictable. Still, he is fairly confident in the herd’s abilities to protect him, from other walkers and humans both. They have had a lot of practice. Carl spent a long time passing as human and still smelling like food; and nowadays humans don’t tend to take kindly to his choice to surround himself with other members of his species.

He rolls out from underneath his mangy blankets, tucking them into his large holdall and stuffing in the kevlar afterwards. Carl makes good use of his fellows, slinging the holdall over the the shoulders of one of his longest undead companions, before taking a drink from the large water bottle he keeps in the rucksack on the back of another. He knew the woman who carries the bag with water in her first life, though he can’t remember her name now. He thinks they were friends, though, and it gives him comfort to talk to her sometimes. She follows his voice, her lank brown hair hanging limply from her scalp, dropping out in clumps as the seasons change. She doesn’t have much left now. Carl thinks he might get her a hat of her own soon; he wants to be able to pick her out in the crowd of stinking, undead flesh.

Morning breaks, as golden light crests over the distant fields; Carl navigates his way though a small patch of forest towards the expanse of empty green patches along the skyline. The other walkers shuffle after him, eager to be moving again. Carl can feel how ravenous they are, because he feels the same unhappy clench of hunger in his own stomach.

Before they clear the trees, they have to cross a shallow stream. Carl gets a rare glimpse at his face in the relatively clear water when he bends down to wash the accumulated grime from his skin. His eyes are no longer a bright, vibrant blue; they have been a sickly green for some time now. He used to be able to control the transition between blue and green, but since he accepted his lot, they seemed to become green permanently.

Still, he can’t always see his face, so he doesn’t know how he transforms, if at all, during his unnatural bursts of energy. When threatened, Carl can run inhumanly quickly; not to mention his quick healing from what should have been fatal wounds, his lack of need for sleep, and other abilities that have no relation to human skills at all.

If a scientist could find the resources to study him now, they would probably discover that his genes have mutated on a cellular level, the virus infecting every part of him, insidiously worming its way through his bloodstream to alter the very fibres of his being. The brain is an organ that even the greatest scientific minds couldn’t understand completely, Carl remembers that. They thought humans could be capable of much more if they could tap into different brain functions simultaneously whilst blocking out other responses. The virus has affected how energy races through his brain matter, giving him the power to perform feats that should be physically impossible.

Carl washes his face in the icy stream, letting his thoughts stray from paths that are no longer open to him, focusing on what is relevant now. His skin is the sallow yellow of sour milk, the way it used to look, back when they still tried raiding fridges for leftovers when there was still fresh food to be found in houses. Now, the only fruit and veg available is that which is found growing in intact greenhouses or un-tilled fields. Carl feasts on watery marrows and juicy grapes wherever possible, his herd waiting listlessly behind him. They are utterly uninterested in plant-life that is also food; but their rotting flesh will taint the plants if they trample all over the fields, so Carl warns them away with territorial snarls.

The thought of fruit makes his stomach rumble; figuratively. His body doesn’t produce sound like that any more, an unexpected and inexplicable side-effect of the virus. That his voicebox is still intact is a mixed blessing. Carl can still talk, but there is no one left to voice his thoughts to. He talks to the female walker sometimes, but she doesn’t understand and can’t reply, so it’s hardly a stimulating conversation.

He looks down at his unfamiliar features, frozen in time. His skin has taken some weathering from the harsh winds and unimpeded sunshine, but he has not aged. Years have passed, and yet a fourteen year old still glares back at him. Tilting his head to catch the sun at a different angle, Carl observes the scarred mess of the right side of his face. An angry red patch of caved in flesh has replaced where his right eye used to sit neatly in his skull. The remaining token of a bullet that was intended to put him down, and the reason why Carl no longer lives amongst his former species.

He brushes gentle fingers along the trailing red vines beneath his skin, like a creeper embedded within his flesh. Thankfully, he pushed his right eye back into its socket, from where it was hanging loose, before he started healing, so he retains some vision. If his left is covered, his vision is tunneled; a blur of muted colour round the edges, with a clear patch in the centre. His brain has rewired to rely on the information from his intact left eye; and as long as it remains undamaged, Carl is barely affected by the horrific damage to his face.

Another splash of water is enough to break him out of his stupor, and he straightens up, continuing his endless journey with confident, controlled steps. The other river bank brings bounty. A rabbit, caught in a snare, that is quickly devoured. Carl barely notices hot blood running down his chin, staining his freshly washed skin. The beat of the poor mammal’s heart far too much of a distraction for such trivialities. His walkers hiss unhappily as he finishes off the morsel, but he ignores them. There is not enough for sharing, and Carl is the alpha.

His acute hearing is strong enough to lead them toward the snare-setters. He tries not to track humans, but the taste of their flesh and their delectable blood calls out to him, and he is so. very. _hungry._

He remains at the front of his band of travelling companions, his walkers shuffling after his every step as though Carl were their messiah. He trails his fingertips along the rough bark of deciduous trees, unhurried and unafraid. There is nothing left in this world more frightening than he.

The human man they find is already bitten; fated to belong to Carl, now. Carl summons the rogue walker that attacked him with a series of growling snarls. When it is close enough, he stabs it with the knife he keeps strapped to his belt for emergencies. It falls in a rattle of bones. The trick to a successful herd is keeping it big enough to intimidate, but small enough to control. It wouldn’t do to have his walkers wander off because they can no longer hear his beckoning calls.

The bleeding man gargles at Carl in confusion as he approaches. He probably assumed Carl was as mindless as his fellows; humans usually do. Unless they’re trying to kill him, Carl doesn’t reveal otherwise, as a general rule. But the man is alone, and already dying: Carl can make an exception here.

He reaches out with a frail, trembling hand toward Carl, who watches him with something like pity in his wide green eyes. “Please…” the man pleads, but for what, Carl can’t imagine.

Mercy perhaps? To have it all finished at the end of Carl’s knife? Once, Carl might have done so. Now, he tilts his head, shading the man with his own form as he crouches in close.

“I’m sorry.” Carl whispers, his voice rough with disuse, because he is. Then he catches hold of the man’s arm and bites down; blood spraying over his yellowing teeth, thick and hot. He no longer even hears human screams, too inured to the sound of their pain, so neither does he notice when they abruptly become wet gurgles through the sopping flesh of a torn jugular.

Behind him, the hissing groans of the other walkers rises to a cacophony as they fall upon their prey, savage and unceremonial. They back away from the choice cuts when Carl commands it, his voice a deep hiss when he digs his fingers into stomach muscles, squashing organs and skin alike between his delicate hands.

At the sound of human footsteps, Carl throws back his head; guts and gore slicking his chin and smeared across his cheekbones. He hears the sound of a safety being clicked off a handgun, swallows his mouthful, and waits.


End file.
